ed the two-fold waistcoats, one of cherry colour the
other of buff, the deep red edge showing against the paler hue. He flung
back the frilled shirt and put his head against Mr Bayfield's side, took
the long, limp hands in his, put his finger on the pulse, and finally
drew his large watch from his fob and looked narrowly down at its round
white-rimmed dial.

'No, he is not dead,' he said shortly to Bryda; 'go to my gig, open the
well behind, and bring me a black case--make haste.'

Bryda staggered to her feet and did as she was bid. The doctor
unstrapped the case, and taking out a small bottle, dropped some of its
contents between the Squire's lips.

A slight movement of the eyelids followed just as old Silas returned
with the horse and gig, which had been waiting with a servant till Mr
Bayfield joined them about a quarter of a mile down the lane.

'Who did it?' the servant asked. 'Whose work is this?'

'It was a fight,' Bryda faltered; 'it was a fight.'

'A fair fight--eh? Who began it?'

Poor Bryda burst into weeping.

'Oh, do not ask me--do not ask me,' she murmured.

'Poor little dear!' said the doctor. 'Was it a fight about you--eh? Why,
it's one of old Farmer Palmer's grand-daughters, I declare. Cheer up, my
pretty one, yours is not the first pretty face which has made mischief
between two suitors. There! there! he isn't dead yet, and he may live. I
can't say yet, but we must get him home. How far is it?'

'A matter of twelve miles, sir.'

'Well, we must lay him across my shandry, it's more roomy than his
gimcracky gig. And you,' he said, turning to the servant, 'must lead the
horse. I'll watch him, and we can make a roughish sort of bed with the
cushions from the gig. And what shall I do with you, my dear?' the
doctor asked.

'Nothing! nothing! I must go back to Bristol. Madam will be so angry.
Silas, give my love to Betty, and tell her I will write to her. I dare
not go home--no, I dare not, Silas. Aunt Dorothy would say it was all
my fault, and so it is! so it is!' Then Bryda turned away, saying, 'He
is not dead, you are sure?'

'Quite certain sure,' Silas replied. 'But lor' bless you, Miss Biddy,
come along home; you look like a ghost!'

'No, no, I must go back, and I must see--' She dared not mention the
name even to Silas. 'I must tell him the Squire is not dead.'

Then, with a terror at her heart, and a nameless dread as if a phantom
of evil were pursuing her, Bryda fled downhill with a sp